Jump Out of a Cake
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: "Surprise!" Sherlock falters back a step, eyebrows knitting together at the amount of people milling about his sitting room. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. Surprise? Birthday!fic.


**Jump Out of a Cake**

Sherlock sighs heavily as he lets himself into the flat; it's been a long day.

Lestrade sent him on some wild goose chase throughout London that could not have _possibly_ led to anything. Scotland Yard must be getting more stupid by the day. Still, Sherlock hasn't found any evidence yet... not that he'll admit that to anyone if they ask. As far as Scotland Yard needs to know, he's hot on the trail.

He closes the door behind him and pulls his gloves off, rubbing his hands together briskly. He puffs a breath of air onto his fingers as he takes the stairs two at a time, throwing the door open once he gets upstairs.

"Surprise!"

Sherlock falters back a step, eyebrows knitting together at the amount of people milling about his sitting room. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. Surprise?

"Happy birthday," Lestrade boasts.

Sherlock doesn't stop frowning. He doesn't celebrate birthdays... Actually, he isn't sure how... whoever found out... found out. He certainly doesn't boast the day. ... Probably Mycroft.

He shares a glance with John across the room. John smiles winningly back at him, like a cat who got a canary and then drank the cream to wash it down.

"Well," Sherlock says. "This is... _certainly_ a surprise," he mutters dryly.

He turns around to take off his coat and hang it up. This is ideally the epitome of everything that he doesn't want to have to deal with tonight. To be honest, he had actually sort of forgotten that it _is_ his birthday.

"How old are you now, Sherlock? Four?" Lestrade asks, grinning himself.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and brushes past their guests to go to the kitchen. "Based upon your powers of observation, I'd wager a guess that your mental age is less than three." He reaches for the teapot for a nice cuppa to combat the idiocy filling his sitting room.

"Come on, Sherlock, behave," John chastises.

Sherlock sighs and turns slightly, raising his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Come associate."

"I don't want to associate," he says bluntly. "I've been busy all day. I'd like to relax."

"Oh, by the way, that case is a fake," Lestrade says.

Sherlock frowns again and looks back at Lestrade. "What?"

"That case you've been working on. John needed a reason to get you out of the flat so we made up a case."

For whatever reason, this doesn't improve Sherlock's mood. It does explain, however, why he hasn't found any evidence. He takes a large gulp of his tea and wishes it were stronger. "Wonderful," he mutters.

"Come on, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson baked a cake for you."

Sherlock lifts his head slightly. "... Perhaps my blood sugar could use a boost," he admits, hesitantly joining the group in the sitting room again.

* * *

Sherlock's half asleep on the sofa by the time that everyone clears out. He's not a good party person and he's tired.

"Have fun?" John asks, shoving Sherlock's feet off the sofa so he can sit down.

Sherlock grunts and shifts position, leaning against the armrest of the sofa. "Fun?"

John laughs. "Well, you seemed to like the cake. And the bacteria Molly cultured for you."

"Hmm... Yes," Sherlock mumbles, stifling a yawn. "The gloves were... um," he cleared his throat, "nice, too."

"I noticed your other pair was getting worn."

Sherlock nods a bit. "Yes." He yawns for real this time and stretches, making a conscious decision to get up and get ready for bed. "Was it really necessary, though? The party and the surprise and all the other rubbish."

John raises his eyebrows. "Yes. It's your birthday."

"So? I don't celebrate," Sherlock says, standing. "Don't do it again."

John's eyebrows don't fall, but a slight smile pulls at his lips. "If you say so."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You're going to do it again, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock sighs. "How did I guess?" He stretches again and starts to the kitchen. "Maybe no more surprise parties."

"I think I can do that," John replies. "Happy birthday, Sherlock."

"Yes... thank you," he says awkwardly, ducking into his bedroom before John can make further statements that make him feel very awkward and stupidly sentimental.

* * *

**Happy birthday to Sherlock Holmes. For you, it's always 1895.**

**Do not own _Sherlock_.**


End file.
